The Tigers' locker room gradually emptied out, with players leaving in groups into the hallways while the music kept playing and conversations about the game blended with plans for the rest of the night. But Wyatt remained seated at his locker, unlocked phone in hand and his eyes fixed on the screen, not moving an inch.
It was the exact same message he had been looking at for days every time he unlocked his phone with the intention of replying, and every time it came down to actually typing something, his brain simply went blank in a way that was completely unprecedented in his life. Wyatt was the type of person who always knew exactly what to say and when to say it, both on and off the field, but apparently, Blaire Bennett was the exception to that rule.
It wasn't that he didn't know what he wanted to say; the problem was precisely that he knew all too well what he wanted to say, and none of those things were things he could type into an Instagram DM without sounding like a complete idiot.
He had spent days staring at those words and closing the app without typing a thing.
He was so focused on the screen that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching from his left until a hand appeared out of nowhere and clapped his shoulder, causing him to instinctively close the app and shut off his phone screen in a single reflex motion that looked exactly as guilty as it felt.
"What's going on?" Laquon said, sitting on the bench opposite him with a towel draped around his neck, looking at Wyatt with that expression of his that mixed genuine curiosity with the clinical eye of someone who has lived with the same person for months and knows perfectly well when something isn't right.
"Nothing," Wyatt replied, slipping the phone into his backpack with a movement that was far too quick to be natural.
"Uh-huh," Laquon said, nodding slowly without breaking eye contact with his roommate, wearing the exact look of someone who has just received an answer they don't believe at all but is weighing whether it's worth pushing right now or saving it for a more convenient time.
"Seriously, it's nothing. I was just checking some messages," Wyatt said, zipping up his backpack and looking up at his friend with the most neutral expression he could muster. Under any other circumstances, it would have worked perfectly because he possessed a nearly infallible poker face both on and off the field, but something about the reflex with which he had shut off his phone screen upon hearing footsteps had already given Laquon more information than Wyatt would have cared to share.
Laquon stared at him in silence for a few seconds longer, wearing an expression Wyatt knew well—the look of someone with a theory forming but who didn't yet have enough data to present it with confidence—before shrugging and dropping the subject without digging any deeper. Wyatt thanked him internally for that, though he knew perfectly well the conversation wasn't over, merely postponed.
"Hey, Sammy and the guys are heading to a party at Sigma Chi tonight," Laquon said, changing the subject as he stood up and began reaching for his clothes in his locker. "You coming?"
Wyatt raised his head, and as he did, he saw through the gap between the rows of lockers that Sammy—who was already completely changed and wearing a backward cap—was looking at him from across the room and waving his hand, while Martavis Bryant and a couple of other players also turned in his direction, awaiting his answer with expressions that made it clear they already took for granted he was coming along.
Wyatt raised a hand in their direction and shook his head.
"Come on, seriously," Laquon insisted, turning back toward him. "After what you did tonight, you deserve to go out and celebrate. You're the ACC Player of the Week, or haven't you realized that yet?"
"Nothing has been announced yet," Wyatt replied for the second time that night, using the same automatic response he had given in the locker room right after the game.
"Five touchdowns, Wyatt," Laquon said, spreading his arms as if the argument spoke for itself. "Four through the air, one on the ground, 347 yards. Nobody is going to dispute that award."
"I'd rather rest," Wyatt replied, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.
"Rest," Laquon repeated, using the exact tone he reserved for when he felt something made absolutely no sense. "You just scored five touchdowns and you want to rest."
"The body needs to recover," Wyatt said with the same calm logic he might use to discuss the weather forecast.
"Tajh is going to be there," Laquon added, trying another angle. "Sammy already booked the VIP section at Sigma Chi, and Martavis says it's going to be the best night of the semester."
"Hope they enjoy it," Wyatt replied, unfazed.
Laquon looked at him for a moment, as if calibrating his next argument, before dropping his ultimate card with the casual ease of someone saving their best play for the end. "Amira is bringing some friends."
Wyatt opened his mouth to respond, and at that exact split second, his brain, without asking permission, conjured an image that had nothing to do with Amira or any of her friends, but rather with a pair of blue eyes that had looked at him from across the room that night in Boston with an expression that mixed calculated indifference with something that was definitely not indifference.
He shook his head slightly, as if the physical gesture could dislodge the image more efficiently than simply ignoring it.
"I'll still pass," Wyatt said.
Laquon looked at him with that expression Wyatt recognized perfectly—the look of someone who has just connected two dots they didn't know were related and is processing the implications of that discovery, but who for some reason decides not to voice them just yet.
"Suit yourself," Laquon finally said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender, though the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he turned to the mirror to adjust his cap did not go entirely unnoticed by Wyatt.
Ten minutes later, the locker room was almost completely empty, with only a few lingering players finishing changing, while the sound of voices and laughter already drifted down the hallway toward the sports complex exit.
Wyatt was the last to leave, walking alone down the corridor with his backpack over his shoulder, the hallway lights casting his long shadow across the concrete floor, while outside, the distant echo of the stands still resonated in the memory of that night, blending with the cold November wind of South Carolina.
The campus at this hour possessed a tranquility distinct from the mornings between classes, with only a few straggling students walking between buildings and dorm lights turned on in irregular patterns, showing who had decided to stay in and who had yet to return from wherever they had gone.
Wyatt walked without haste, hands in his sweatshirt pockets and earbuds tucked away instead of in his ears, because tonight he didn't need music to occupy the silence; quite the contrary, he needed the silence to sort through what was in his head, though that wasn't working particularly well either.
He passed a group of three girls walking in the opposite direction who, upon recognizing him, lowered their voices and began whispering among themselves with that unmistakable energy Wyatt had learned to identify over the last few months—an intensity he had never experienced before coming to Clemson.
He gave them a brief nod of his head before continuing on his way without stopping.
The route from the athletic complex to the residence hall was one Wyatt had walked so many times he could do it on autopilot, and tonight was no exception. His mind was entirely elsewhere while his feet carried him along the usual path between the campus buildings, which at this hour were mostly silent, with only the exterior hallway emergency lights illuminating the pathways between structures.
When he finally reached his room, he found it exactly as they had left it that morning before heading to the stadium, with Laquon's bed half-made and his own pillow still on the floor from the night before—something that under normal conditions would have mildly annoyed him, but tonight went completely unnoticed as he dropped his backpack by the door and threw himself onto the bed without bothering to turn on the room light, remaining in the dimness with only the orange glow of the campus lights filtering through the partially open blinds.
He wasn't sleepy.
That was the irony of it all, because he had used the excuse of resting to stay behind, and now he was lying on the bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling with the same concentration he had used to read Georgia Tech's defense for four quarters tonight, except the ceiling offered him no useful information about absolutely anything.
He stayed like that for several minutes, arms crossed behind his head and eyes fixed on the same spot on the ceiling, listening to the silence of the room, interrupted occasionally by the distant sound of a car passing on the street outside or the murmur of voices from one of the neighboring rooms whose occupants had clearly decided not to go to any party tonight, or if they had, hadn't come back yet.
He thought about calling his father, because whenever he needed to clear his head, a conversation with him had the effect of putting things into perspective in a way Wyatt hadn't found anywhere else. But it was nearly eleven at night in Texas, and his father woke up every day at five in the morning with the same punctuality as the sunrise, so he ruled out that option too.
The phone was in his pants pocket, and he could feel it from there with the same inescapable presence with which one feels something they are actively trying not to think about.
He had spent days with that message unanswered.
It wasn't that he hadn't had time to reply, because he had had plenty of time during practices, between classes, and at night before going to sleep. Rather, every time he opened the conversation and saw the words "saw you guys won the last two games, not bad for a texas boy," his brain unilaterally decided that none of the responses he was considering were good enough, and he closed the app before his fingers could do anything about it.
The first time he had attributed it to exhaustion, the second to a lack of inspiration, the third to having a game the next day, and by the fourth, he had no excuse left other than the truth, which was simply that Blaire had left him speechless—and that was something that hadn't happened to him with anyone in a very long time, if it had ever happened at all.
It was ridiculous.
It was completely ridiculous, and Wyatt was perfectly aware that it was ridiculous, which somehow made it even more ridiculous, because at least if he weren't aware of it, he could attribute it to distraction or forgetfulness. But the truth was he hadn't forgotten the message for a single moment, and that said everything about a situation Wyatt definitely had not anticipated when he hid in Blaire's closet three weeks ago.
He thought of Blaire's blue eyes again, and this time, he made no effort to push the image away.
He pulled the phone out of his pocket and held it over his face, staring at the blank screen for a moment before unlocking it.
He went straight to the conversation this time without pausing to check any other notification, eyes on Blaire's message and thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
He started to type something, deleted it, started again, and deleted that too.
"hey" — too generic.
"saw you still remember me" — too cocky.
"took me a while to reply because I was busy" — an obvious lie.
He let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling for a second before turning back to the screen, arms extended upward, holding the phone over his face as if gravity could help him think more clearly.
The problem wasn't finding the right words; the problem was that any response he wrote was going to reveal something Wyatt wasn't entirely sure he wanted to reveal just yet—the fact that this message had kept him thinking for a long time, including tonight, a night in which he had scored five touchdowns in his debut as a starter, and the first thing he had thought about upon sitting at his locker after the game hadn't been any of those scores.
That said quite a lot.
Finally, with the same decisiveness with which he had thrown the 46-yard pass to Laquon on the very first play of the game tonight, Wyatt typed out his response without re-reading it and hit send before his brain could produce any counterargument, leaving the phone on his chest, screen facing up, and eyes back on the ceiling as he waited in the silence of the room.
Author thought
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